


Night of the Hunter

by tiger_moran



Series: Lyric [22]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Confrontations, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27608711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Twenty-second in a collection of standalone but also interconnected Moriarty and Moran fics inspired by lyrics from songs, particularly pop/rock songs.
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty
Series: Lyric [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992709
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Night of the Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> Thirty Seconds to Mars - Night of the Hunter
> 
> Cover your eyes, the devil’s inside
> 
> One night of the hunter  
> One day I will get revenge  
> One night to remember  
> One day it'll all just end

An odd sort of peace exists between them these days. Things are far from being what they were once, but they share a bed, they spend a great deal of their time together, they kiss, they touch. This makes their visitor one stormy night then even more vexing, at least to Moran. Moriarty though seems oddly unperturbed by the man's arrival.

“Good evening, Mr Holmes,” he says, his tone of voice sounding genuinely pleasant even as Holmes stands there dripping rainwater onto the tiled floor of their hallway. “Do come inside and get yourself warmed up.”

Beside him Moran glowers, appearing a mere hair's breadth away from leaping on Holmes and attempting to throttle him perhaps, but the Professor requests tea from the maid and gestures to Holmes to enter the drawing room.

“You have been expecting me,” Holmes says, watching Moriarty with those intense cool grey eyes of his.

The Professor still limps and still walks stiffly, using his silver-topped cane for support. He sits upon the sofa nearest to the fireplace, settling himself, and he looks up at Holmes with his own blue-grey eyes. “Of course,” he says. “It was inevitable you would feel a need to pay us a visit sooner or later.”

“Turnin' up like a bad penny,” Moran says, with a sneer. He sits himself down beside the Professor, close enough to touch him, while his gaze remains locked onto Holmes.

“It is good to see you too, Colonel,” Holmes says, lightly, though wryly. He takes the armchair opposite the pair, settling himself into it, resting his long fingers upon his knees. “You are looking much better than the last time I saw you.” Which had been in the courtroom, where Moran had fainted, been brought round and then had to be practically propped up against the wall in order to make it to the end of the proceedings, after which point Holmes and Watson had walked out, Watson complaining bitterly all the while about the travesty of the 'not guilty' verdict, though Holmes had remained silent on the matter, thinking. “You though, Professor, are perhaps not looking your best still.”

As he pours the tea, Moriarty raises an eyebrow at this, just barely. “I think, for a man you pushed into a large waterfall, I am looking really rather good,” he says, pointedly. “Sugar?”

“No, thank you, and I did _not_ push you.”

Moran emits a sharp laugh at this. He has not taken his eyes off Holmes all the while, those fierce burning-blue eyes of his, oddly tiger-like still despite their colour. He was not at his best, for obvious reasons, on the last few occasions he encountered Holmes, but he is still a hunter, still capable of killing a man. Holmes has no doubt at all that at the merest sign from Moriarty, Moran would pounce on him.

“Course you didn't,” Moran says scathingly.

“Moran, pass this to Mr Holmes please.” Moriarty hands him the teacup.

Moran looks at it briefly as if he is thinking about dumping the contents of it into Holmes's lap, but only hands it over wordlessly.

“Thank you,” Holmes says with impeccable politeness.

“Biscuit?” Moriarty says, holding out the plate of biscuits to him.

“No. Thank you.”

Moriarty smiles thinly, yet somehow seeming truly amused. “Three years,” he says, dropping a sugar lump into his own teacup. “For three years you feigned death, allowed even your beloved Doctor Watson to think you dead, and yet Sebastian here knew that you lived. All of those of my acquaintance who you failed to round up knew that you lived still shortly after that. So what were those three years truly about, Mr Holmes? Guilt, perhaps, once you realised _exactly_ what you were capable of? Penitence?”

“I had nothing to feel guilty for. I had to put a stop to you and your operations.”

“By fair means or foul?” Moriarty says, still smiling. He stirs his tea very slowly, watching Holmes still. “Did you realise that you could not in fact get me into a courtroom? That the only way you could stop me was to kill me yourself, not even in the manner of a true assassin, more like some _common ruffian_?” He continues to meet Holmes's gaze, before turning his head away at last to look into the flames in the hearth for a moment. “Why are you here?”

“To tell you, if you resume what you were doing before, I will take steps against you once again.”

A smile flickers across Moriarty's face as he looks up at Holmes again. “Ah, so you have given up trying to bring me to book for anything from before?” he says before sipping his tea.

“Not at all.”

“Come now, Mr Holmes, you have evidence of nothing against me. I admit, you inconvenienced me for a time, and you forced me to pay a great price, but you did not destroy me. Here I am still.”

“You have a very high opinion of yourself still I see.”

Moriarty tilts his chin up, proudly. “Of course.” And why would he not, really, when he has lost so much, yes, but also when he has survived so much that would have utterly destroyed so many other men. “As do you,” he remarks.

Holmes seems to smile thinly, fleetingly at this.

“Does the good doctor know that you are here?” Moriarty enquires in a pleasant tone after a moment's silence.

“Of course.”

“Liar,” Moran says, grinning. “You'd not tell 'im cos you know he would come with you or try to stop you, and you can't 'ave either, and you can't 'ave good old John Watson knowing the real truth about you.”

“Which is what, precisely?” Holmes queries, regarding Moran through hooded eyes.

“That you and the Professor are so alike. You think he is some kind of king devil? Well there's a lot of the devil in you an' all, Mr Holmes.”

“ _Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, dass er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird_ ,” says Moriarty. “ _Und wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst, blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein._ ” He smiles, rather more with his eyes than with his mouth. “So you wanted Professor James Moriarty, criminal mastermind, dead?” he says. “Then congratulations, Mr Holmes, you did indeed kill him. He is dead and gone and you may condemn him or lament his loss all you wish. The Professor James Moriarty who sits before you... is not that man.” He takes another nonchalant sip of his tea.

“You're saying you intend to give up your life of crime, do you?” Holmes remarks scornfully. He looks down into his teacup briefly, his nostrils flaring slightly, considering if it is poisoned no doubt, before he sips at it.

Even Moran stares at Moriarty at this, somewhat surprised by his words, yet perhaps also immensely relieved, that the Professor appears not to want to rise to what may be Holmes's poor attempt at baiting him and renew their ridiculous feud.

“Yes, Mr Holmes, that is precisely what I am saying. You have beaten me. I commend you for this.” Setting his teacup down, the Professor claps his hands together. “A round of applause for you, Mr Holmes. You won, and yet...” He slips his left hand over, takes Moran's hand and squeezes it. “In winning, you have also lost – lost the only opponent you ever had who made your life truly interesting. In fact, Mr Holmes, you killed him; you pushed him to his death, down into that abyss, and you will have to live with that fact for the rest of your own existence. So you did indeed beat me, Holmes, but in the end...” He smiles, nastily, and this smile bares his teeth slightly. “ _I_ still won.”

“Yes, well.” Holmes gulps down the remainder of his tea and places the teacup on the small table between them. “You had best not try anything else criminal in future.”

“Or you will try to murder me again?” Moriarty enquires pleasantly. “More tea, Mr Holmes?”

“No. Thank you.” Holmes stands up. “I must be going.”

Assisted by Moran, Moriarty too gets to his feet, and he holds out his hand to Holmes across the table.

Holmes glances at it for a moment before reaching out, shaking hands with the Professor. Moriarty's grip is surprisingly strong still, despite the stiffness of his fingers, and the handshake lingers on for several more seconds past the point where it is generally considered polite to let go. Neither seems to have any inclination to back away however. Moriarty's blue-grey eyes are locked onto Holmes's grey ones still and even Moran seems to regard the intensity of the look that passes between them as something he isn't sure he should be witnessing.

Two men, not particularly alike in terms of appearance, but beneath the surface they mirror each other, and perhaps there is only the finest of lines between the two. In a parallel world perhaps it would be Moriarty, accompanied by his loyal ex-soldier Moran, who would be the detective and Holmes the criminal mastermind, with his former army doctor by his side.

“Goodnight, Mr Holmes,” Moriarty says.

“Goodnight, Professor Moriarty,” Holmes says in return.

At last Moriarty withdraws his hand though his gaze remains fixed on Holmes's for a second or two longer. Holmes glances then towards Moran, who is watching him still, pure predator in that look and stance, and abruptly he holds out his hand to him.

“Goodnight Colonel Moran,” he says.

Moran stares at him a moment before shrugging slightly. He takes Holmes's hand in a tight, almost crushing grip. “Goodnight, Mr Holmes,” he says, before tugging Holmes closer, so that he may snarl into his ear, “If you ever so much as try to harm him again, next time I will destroy you.”

“I would expect nothing less from you, Colonel,” Holmes tells him.

“Sebastian, let him go,” Moriarty instructs, and Moran finally lets go of Holmes's hand.

The Colonel only finally relaxes a degree though when he is sure Holmes has gone completely. Once certain of this he wanders back to sit beside the Professor on the sofa.

“Did you mean what you said?”

“About what, chick?” Moriarty carefully tests the temperature of the teapot with the back of his hand before pouring out another cup of tea.

“Giving up your life of crime.”

“More or less.”

“That's a no then, is it?”

“Not at all.” Moriarty places his hand on Moran's leg, patting him gently. “I thought you enjoyed that life though? The danger of it?”

“I do! At least, I did. But I can't...” Moran stares down at the rug. “I can't risk losing you again. I'd rather give up everything else than lose you.”

“You will not lose me, pet.”

“If we go back to how we were though, I might.”

“I told you, my boy, I will give that up.”

“More or less?”

Moriarty laughs. “Come now, Sebastian, are you truly telling me you want us to give up a life of crime completely?”

Moran laughs too. “No sir, not _completely_. Just... be more careful this time, far more selective, and stay out of Holmes's way.”

“Of course.” Moriarty is still smiling as he stirs his second cup of tea. “I would not give him the satisfaction of taking me on a second time.” He glances towards Moran's teacup with consternation. “You have not drunk your tea,” he observes, and, reaching over to take a biscuit from the plate, he marks an end to that particular line of conversation.

**Author's Note:**

> Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, dass er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird. Und wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst, blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein = Whoever fights with monsters should see to it that he does not become a monster in the process. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you. - Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil


End file.
